WNP: As he stepped out of the plane, he felt like his whole life had changed.
One moment, airplane. Scuffed, utilitarian aisle carpet. Blue covered seats in rows of three on each side of the aisle. Low murmurs of conversation as everyone shifted and moved around him, collecting bags and books. The stale aroma of whatever attempt at chicken basil dinner they had eaten still hanging in the air. Shirt still sticking to his back in places from the humidity of July heat before getting on this plane, hours ago now.
Then. Cold. Bitter cold. And the overwhelming stench...scent of fish. Through a gap in the walkway sides he could see workers wearing heavy coats with fur-lined hoods shifting luggage and boxes down on the tarmac. He wrapped his arms around himself and moved quicker. A few more steps and he reached the terminal gate.
"Welcome to Reykjavik," the stewardess said as he stepped on by.
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